I confess. I play favorites. No, not with my kids, but with my characters. Oh, I try to be fair, but sometimes it takes a great deal of effort.
Sometimes the wrong character keeps putting in their two cents:
“Finn, this isn’t your story. Pipe down. You play a key role, isn’t that good enough?”
“Did you just tell me to pipe down? Be glad you’re my writer. Otherwise I might have to end your measly human existence.”
Sometimes the plot comes to a screeching halt and the character is of no help whatsoever:
“We need to get you out of this forest.”
“Don’t look at me. You’re the one who wrote me into this darn place.”
“You aren’t helping.”
More than once I’ve been well into a story when someone strides onto the scene and steals the spotlight:
“Who the heck are you?”
“Gabriel, of course. Tremble in fear at my approach.”
“I wrote you, you know.”
“Yes, I know. I’m awesome, aren’t I?”
Is it any wonder I sometimes misplace my keys?